


Vogue

by Trash



Category: America's Next Top Model, Linkin Park
Genre: Crack, so so much crackity crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:16:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chester and Brad are both competing to be America's Next Top Model.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vogue

Chester is cheating. Chester always fucking cheats. And it’s a wonder Tyra Banks hasn’t kicked his thrift-store-jewellery loving ass off the show by now. When Brad approached her with the idea that Chester may possibly have an eating disorder she smiled her charming, million dollar smile and shrugged. Said something like live and let live.

Brad just rolled his eyes and stomped away back to the house where Chester was lounging on a futon with a book in hand.

“I know you’re just pretending to be intellectual, bitch,” Brad hisses as he walks past him, hips swaying.

“No, Brad, some of us can actually read.”

He stands behind the futon and glares down at the other model. Skin and bone would be a generous way to describe Chester. He doesn’t eat anymore, barely drinks. He’s passed out more then once during a challenge. Not that Brad gives a flying fuck about his health; he just doesn’t want anybody to win just because they’re thinner.

“Move your size zero ass and come help with dinner.” Brad snaps.

Chester rolls off the futon gracefully and drifts into the kitchen where the other guys are preparing dinner. He takes a pepper and a knife, begins chopping it into thin slices meticulously.

“You know Tyra is going to kick you out of the competition this week because you’re a cheating little whore,” Brad says conversationally.

Chester shrugs, dices the chopped pepper, “You know she’s going to kick you out for being an unwashed tramp.” He tosses the pepper into the pan and smiles at Brad.

“Look, asshole, nobody is going to put a skeletal, tattooed freak on the front cover of Vogue, okay? Even if you won the contract with Ford Models they’d kick your skinny ass to the curb the minute they saw you.”

Somebody groans. Not again, that’s what everybody wants to say. Or maybe, fuck you both, neither of you are going to win.

Chester steps around the island, closer to Brad. He jabs the knife at him, smirking, “Oooh snap. You’re right. Why would Ford want me when they could have your animalistic, afrotastic, body odourific self? I hear that sweat is the new Armani scent.”

“Uh, computer says ‘no’!”

Chester puts down the knife, picks up an imaginary phone and nods, puts it back down, “2004 just called; they want their catchphrase back.”

Brad steps closer, gritting his teeth, “The jerk store called…”

“The washed up, coked out model store called…”

“I haven’t done drugs for years you faggot!” Brad screams as he lunges toward Chester, grabbing a handful of his hair and pulling him to the floor.

“Argh!” Chester cries as his back hits the linoleum, “Get off me you fucking weirdo!”

He reaches up, pulling Brad’s hair, his other hand flailing out and scratching at whatever part of his body that he can. Brad slaps him hard and cries out when Chester yanks hard at his hair.

The good thing about reality TV is that there is always security on hand, just in case. And when Brad reaches out blindly to grab the knife Chester discarded earlier the burly security men jump in. The cameras are cut, and Tyra is given a call.

After a stern talking to during which he and Chester both stood with their heads down, glaring angrily at the floor, Brad stomped away to the diary room. He drops onto the couch and turns on the camera.

“Chester is such a douche bag. Nobody with a nose that big will ever be America’s next top model.” He says to the camera, seething. “I’ve worked my fucking ass off to be here. I want this more than any of the other guys in this house and I won’t let my dream be snatched away by somebody who weighs less than my cock.”

***

That night they all stand in the judging room with Tyra Banks in front of them, her tits squashed into an Yves Saint Laurent jersey halter dress. She looks fabulous, and smiles warmly.

She reveals each photo slowly, dragging it all out for the cameras. Chester shifts his weight, lets his face fall to worry for a second before schooling it into a tight lipped smile as all the other models’ names are called and he and Brad are left standing.

“Could Brad and Chester please step forward,” Tyra murmurs.

They do, stomping toward the front.

“Both of you take brilliant photos,” Tyra says, “you both have distinct run way walks. You both have everything it takes to be America’s Next Top Model. Except the attitude.”

She takes a deep breath, “With that in mind I regret to say that neither of you will be going through to the next round. You must both return to the house, pack your belongings, and go home.”

Chester gawps, his heart breaking inside of his chest. Brad stares at her until he realises she isn’t joking. They both turn, confused, and leave the room. As they head along the narrow hallway that leads back to the house Brad elbows Chester in the ribs and growls, “This is your fucking fault; you bitch.”

“Oh fuck you,” Chester scoffs, “if you’d just take a bath I might have been able to stand being around you more.”

They walk in silence into the house, shoving each other out of the way as they head to their bedroom to pack their things. Chester folds his clothes carefully, zipping up his case. Brad throws his things in haphazardly and does the same, lifting it and wheeling it out of the room.

The competition is fixed anyway, he tells himself. It’s all just a pile of crap. He could have won.

And as they leave Brad holds the door open for Chester who is following him out. And just as the other model gets to the doorway, Brad slams it in his face.


End file.
